A Death in the Making
by Angels and Immortals
Summary: This is the story of Clare, her unraveling, and the journey to fix her shattered heart.


Dear Readers,

This is my first Claymore fan fiction. Claymore is my absolute favorite anime (drooling mindlessly at the thought of anything Teresa related) so I just had to go for it. Anyways, please no flaming, only constructive critiquing. Please read, rate, and reply!

Sincerely,

Angels and Immortals

Disclaimer: I do NOT own Claymore or its affiliations and am NOT making a profit.

A Death in the Making

Life as Teresa knew it was dead, burned by the hands of insanity. This I knew and so did the disembodied head of my mother, its peaceful smile plastered on an unmarred face. Priscilla had grown weary of her life, of everything, this macabre playhouse named existence. In a frenzy she wrought asunder the foundations burdening her wild heart, unleashing crimson wings and golden eyes.

The end was inevitable. The daughter destroyed the mother, losing her to the blade of the rarely mentioned relative only seen at those few family reunions, a member who never really wanted to belong anyways.

A clean cut with no pain for the tenderhearted dead, but anguish for the mourning living. Never had I mourned so deeply than when I felt Teresa's lips brush against my hands, hands wrapped around a mouth without screams. So cold. Never had Teresa been without warmth, not even when that cruel smirk wound its way across her true smile like a snake poised to engorge its prey.

Desire was yet another emotion foreign to my unseasoned mind. Lust for blood, desire for vengeance, a searing passion that resounded in every fiery artery coursing through sallow skin, this, this was me and my existence, my life! Teresa gave me back my life, sparked feelings long killed by the cruelties of youth. Eyes which challenged me to argue my self-worth, which picked me up from under the shambles of despair, these were instruments of revival which flooded my numb heart with stabbing pains of joy and adoration. It was ultimately love and hope I found nestled in the palms of Teresa's hands, in the edge of her smile, in the lilt of her strong voice.

Her death it seemed could fault neither, her lifeblood igniting a storm of hatred flashing across a heart no longer new, no longer worthy of saving. Widened eyes and helpless hands were my last pictures of my beloved Teresa. She did not look inspiring then, nor did she look cruel. My beautiful mother was terrified of the reaper, but fear did not spare her invitation to death. There was no acceptance in her shocked gaze, just consuming and pitiful terror of what would become of her.

What would become of me.

Even in that instant of finality, she yearned to protect the one responsible for her downfall.

There are no words to describe this pain. At that moment when her eyes ceased to glow, when her face lost all shine, a fissure in my freshly mended heart widened. Farther and farther it grew, cracking faster, crumbling and chipping away, until the broken heap of stone lay heavy in my chest. When Teresa died, a part of me dissipated, like dew on a blade of grass, like rain baked under the Saharan sun, like tears unseen by motherly eyes.

Death is so tempting when life becomes unlivable. Many days I dreamt of it, fantasized and begged for the scythe to fall across this soulless corpse. But when I remembered the price such a body was bought at, the need ebbed away into the tide of forgetfulness.

Vengeance is the perfect reason to exist, to fight, to demand your body stand upright when all you wish to do is lay down and accept the sword digging into your throat, to tolerate the peals of laughter daring resistance to raise its valiant head, to allow the foe to spill blood not worthy of being used. This and more age enlightened me with.

Love is the more powerful agent at work, a drug to allure self-preservation from the depths of obscurity. True love casts a glow upon the blackness of the heart, erases the shadows so that hope might intervene. Teresa gave me this new hope, one quickly swallowed by the maw of Priscilla. However, with the boy a new form of light scattered the darkness at my feet. The taint purified by Raki's affection gave me a perspective unseen, a testament which vowed I had to live as Teresa lived for me, even at the cost of my own existence.

It was Raki who reignited this hope, this love, this passion to truly live. It was for Teresa that I fought, but Raki for which I would die. To protect the honor of the dead and to avenge a life torn short by greedy hands was my goal, my ultimate decision. But . . . Raki needed me in a different way. Teresa would have forgiven any fault, any fatal error made avenging her. Raki was not so generous and would not pardon failure. In order for him to live I had to live. This responsibility held fast my soul, sustained my weakening body, forced me to limits unthinkable. He became what I was in youth and in doing so served a purpose previously mine. Two infant souls rested in the swing of my blade, in the outcome of battle. I could not lose, would not lose, and still have not lost.

In these moments when I become my mother, not only in flesh but in duty, a part of me long broken swells with happiness, warming the stone perched in my chest and leaving only rivulets of light streaming through me. I am needed. I am important. And I am loved.

Clare

Author's Note:

A little too melodramatic maybe, but I'm hoping it's good. :)


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